Chapter Text
Lucerys’ sins finally find him in the middle of the night, only three days after the birth of his youngest brother, Viserys.
Mistakes, he should say. Slips. Blunders. At least, that’s what they are according to his mother. Anything to lessen the severity of what he’d done, make it seem inconsequential, small. Make it seem like someone else had pulled him to that cave, placed a knife in his hand and whispered be the dragon they think you aren’t, and Lucerys had no choice but to listen, to pierce and carve until there’s nothing left. Until the blood cannot be washed away, not fully, not truly, not even weeks later when the wounds are no longer raw, and the aches have softened, and the only memory of the night is a scattering of barely healed scars across the Targaryen dynasty.
It wasn’t just an eye that was lost that night.
His mother is before him, ashen faced. She’s barely able to stand, holding onto the doorway with a tight, white knuckled grip. Even from his bed, he can see the light sheen of sweat that collects on her forehead, inhaling the way her honeyed scent is accompanied by something sharp and metallic, leaving an odd taste at the back of his throat. She watches him, like she’s waiting for him to speak, to break this unsteady silence that settles between them at her arrival, but the courage does not come, it never has, and his lips remain pressed firmly together.
There’s an odd pallor to his mother’s face, too sickly for Lucerys to stomach, and he finally breaks the stillness, closing the distance between them with hurried steps, and gently slips an arm around his mother, guiding her towards his bed. For once, she allows it with no protest, leaning her weight on him once they step away from the door.
She should not be here, Lucerys thinks, when they step forward together, painstakingly dragging bare feet over the cold stone floor. She should not have even left her bed, let alone her quarters. So soon after his little brother’s appearance in the world. After days of torment, agony, a battle against nature itself.
He should take her back. Call for his stepfather.
But she is his mother. He knows his mother.
She would not have left his little brother, not willingly, and not so early, not without cause. Wouldn’t be here unless she had to be.
Lucerys feels the breath leave his body. Sinks down on his bed. Pulls his mother down with him. A lump burrows itself at the back of his throat, scratches and scrambles, pulls at skin. He can’t swallow. Just shakily struggles in one inhale after the other.
He blinks. And blinks again. He knows, undoubtedly, that whatever his mother says to him now, he will never be the same again. Whoever steps out his door will not be the boy who had walked into it.
After a moment, his mother shifts in her place beside him, a soft sigh escaping as she finally eases herself into a more comfortable spot, and her hands find their way into his mess of dark curls, smoothing her fingertips between the strands. Soothing his troubles, even if for just a second. Because, despite it all, he is still a boy, cradled between his mother’s two hands. Nothing can reach him here. She wouldn’t let it.
Lucerys allows himself a moment of respite, and slowly presses his side against his mother’s. Soaking in her warmth. Breathing in her hair. Inhaling the faint wisp of lemon in sweet summer air that accompanies her wherever she goes, comfortingly similar to the sugared lemon cakes they share from time to time on hot summer nights when all they can do is pour over Valyrian words together. Another sigh, this time from him, and the hands in his hair trail down, lightly brushing his shoulders.
“Are you alright?” He finds himself asking, quietly, once his mother holds one of his hands between her own. “Is-is Viserys okay?”
She smiles when he asks, but it’s strained, barely even turning the corners of her mouth let alone reaching her eyes. Lucerys thinks she might cry. No—he knows it. There’s a chillness that settles within him at that. One he has known before, when he was younger, watching his brother cower on the floor, with the grittiness of dried, flecked blood underneath his fingernails and a knife slipping aimlessly through his fingers. He had promised himself he’d never let the cold bite of anger, the iciness that threatens to choke him between one hushed breath and the next, get the better of him again. But, for his mother, he would. He’d break the vow in a heartbeat.
“Oh, my sweet boy,” she begins, squeezing his hand. “We are both fine. Your brother is asleep, as I should be too, as we should all be, but—” she trails off. Glances away from him. Grits her teeth.
There’s a crackle of lightning close nearby, and for a moment, his mother’s face twists harshly in the indigo light. She is more dragon than woman.
Lucerys nods weakly, tries to understand. He looks at his mother again, at the vastness of her expression, the way her eyes are constantly flickering between them, charting each and every part of his face, even down to the last freckle. Like… they are about to say a goodbye, and she is fighting against the urge to pull him against herself, and hold him close. An uneasiness twists and grows in his chest.
Something is about to happen; he thinks to himself. Something has already happened, comes the truth.
“What is it? What’s happened?”
She meets his eyes then, and something painful seeps into her look. Her scent sours, and he fails to stifle the answering flare in his own, a rush of cloying lavender in the sweltering summer breeze seeping into the surrounding air. She hums softly, rubbing a continuous pattern into his palm. “I received a raven from King’s Landing. From your grandsire, my father.”
“Is he—”
“He is well. As well as one can be with his illness. He says the sickness hasn’t spread any further. I will not be Queen, not yet. Not for a long time, hopefully.”
“Then, what is it?” he asks, tiredly. He already hadn’t slept well because of the storm, and now there is this. This. His mind is too slow, and thick – almost heavy. He wants to forget whatever this is. Leave it for the morning. Wants to pull the covers up over them both. Curl up together in bed like they had done when he was younger, on the days where storms would wake him up, and nothing could help him sleep but his mother. Wants to sleep for eternity. Hide away from everybody else.
“Luke, I—” His mother is gentle. Hushed. The same tone she uses for them all when the whispers of their parentage get too close, too loud, and she’s forced to intervene, to grasp wildly but relentlessly at loose strands of yarn until she can twist them back into a neater spool of wool to wrap around them all. Thick enough to keep all the whispers out, and all the doubts in. Warm too, and a greater comfort than he knows most have. A mother who loves them, who is willing to burn both land and sea for them. “I have to ask something of you. Something I don’t want to ask of you, but must.”
He swallows. Squeezes her hand back. “I will do it, mother. For you. Whatever it is, I will try.”
She laughs wetly, brushes a thumb across the top of his hand. Lucerys forces himself not to wonder why she’s shaking. “I haven’t even told you what it is yet.”
There’s a twitch of a smile at that, one that brightens her face, and Lucerys wants to chase it, this flicker of sunlight, and make it never leave. Doesn’t want to see her as anything but happy. “As long as it’s not helping Jace to clean his dragon riding gear, I’ll do it.”
At his words, the tightness in her face loosens, losing its sharp edge, and this time the twitch travels to her cheeks too, tugging them fervently into a smile.
He can’t help it. He finds himself mirroring her expression, and they both share another smile. The weariness trickles from his shoulders, if only for a moment. He relaxes further against his mother. His brother is all alpha, all recklessness, all unbridled liberation. It was no secret that he hadn’t washed his gear even once in the past year. He probably reeked more of dragon, and sweat, and grime, than all the dragons on Dragonstone put together.
“It’s not helping Jace, no. He needs to learn that lesson on his own terms.” And, then she quirks a wider smile, leans closer to him. “But, just between you and me, I think he might need a little shove in the right direction. Daemon is handling that for me, don’t worry, your poor nose won’t have to suffer for much longer.”
If in agreement, he scrunches his nose, and then glances back down at their entwined hands. Feels himself begin to unravel, thread by thread. A gloominess tunnels itself to his heart, thrums in his veins, and Lucerys can’t shake the knowledge, the thought, that his mother is here for a reason. For something other than whispering back and forth, nestled together in his bed, laughing about the antics of his older brother.
He wets his lips, fumbles for words.
“If it’s to do with the King, it can’t be good, can it?”
She looks at him, truly looks at him, perhaps for the first time in days, and that expression crawls its way back onto her face. His mother considers the question, violet eyes glistening with something other than moonlight. Shakes her head solemnly. Lucerys feels the dread swallow him whole. “No, it’s not good.”
Lucerys shuts his eyes, doesn’t want his mother to see the way they well up so easily, so swiftly, just at that. At the confirmation of the source of his worries.
“Lucerys.” There’s a soft tap on his hand, a tickle of soft fingers running over skin. “Luke, please look at me.”
But he doesn’t want to. There is a fear, however minor it may be, that is clinging to him, burying itself claws deep. There is a fear, and it is here to stay.
“Please.”
He looks up, meets her stare. She’s frowning, deeply, and her grip has tightened. Impossibly so. “I don’t want to make you do this. If you don’t want to do it, I’ll… I’ll—"
“But,” he interrupts, tugging her hands closer towards him, looking at her earnestly. “The King has requested this, hasn’t he? The letter is penned by him. It is his words.”
She nods.
“Then.. then, I must. I don’t have a choice, do I? Neither do you.” And, he can’t take it any longer, this trepidation fluttering against his chest. “What did he say?”
There’s a resounding silence. His mother stares down at their hands, like she doesn’t want to leave this small moment between them. Like she is delaying the inevitable, anything to hold him for a little longer. But, her will cracks, and her eyes flash back to his, brimming with what is undoubtedly unshed tears. She is crying for him, he thinks belatedly. She is mourning him. “The King wants a marriage. Between his family and ours. To strengthen the bonds, bridge this rift that lies between us.”
Lucerys frowns, doesn’t quite understand. “I thought Helaena was already married to Aegon.”
His mother sighs, deflates. But, doesn’t look away. “She is… It’s not Helaena the betrothal is concerning. It’s… It’s Aemond. And—”
His confusion dampens, becoming heavier by the second, something that he can’t help but drown in. He has no sisters. She had come to his room, nobody else’s. His. And that meant – that meant… seven hells.
His heart stutters. Falters. The thought tears the air from his lungs.
Aemond is a man. Aemond is his uncle. Aemond hates him.
And the King wants him to wed him.
He wonders if he has misheard her, desperately hopes that he has misheard her, but she just continues to watch, worrying her lip between teeth.
He stumbles, chokes on air. “I don’t understand, mother. How am I meant to—Why does the King—” A weak bitter laugh escapes him. “I took his eye. I took his eye. Gods, mother. He hates me. Is this a punishment?”
Lucerys can feel the sick rising in his throat. And then he screws his eyes shut, again, pulls his hands out of his mother’s hold and holds them curled against his chest. He gasps in one rattling breath. And then another.
“Why?” he says in a thin voice, opening his eyes fully once more.
“Why?” His mother repeats, hands still held loosely in her lap. He’s not sure whether she truly knows the answer herself, or is stuck in this chasm of confusion with him. Bound together—mother and son—like they had always been, like they always would be.
“Why me? Why not—” His breath catches in his throat. He pauses, lets the realisation simmer and still, before he faces his mother completely.
“They know, don’t they?” He says thickly. Swallows a sob that uncurls itself from deep within his chest. “About me. They know.. they know that we lied. About my presentation. They know that I’m not a beta.”
And he remembers those days, just a few short moons ago, full of anguish, and despair, and fire. Too much heat, even for a Targaryen. An omega, his mother had whispered to him afterwards when his tears had dried, you’re an omega, my sweet boy.
His mother hushes him, curls an arm around his shoulder, and presses their foreheads together. The mixing of their scents, a peppering of lemon interlaced with saccharine floral tones, sings with his ache.
There’s a silence after that. Lucerys is not sure how long it lasts before his mother clears her throat.
“Yes.” She answers softly. “They know.”
“Seven hells,” he curses. “How?”
He doesn’t have the energy to finish his words. The questions hang precariously in the air between them. How did they find out? How could he be expected to do it? How could the King sentence him to this?
And his mother just sighs again, pulls away to look him in the eyes once more, and shakes her head. “I don’t know. I-I don’t know. We were so careful. So careful.” Her mouth twists into a pained grimace, lacking all the warmth his mother usually eludes. “It’s my fault. I should have… I should have known. Should have prepared better. It’s all my fault. And I’m sorry, my sweet, that you must reap my failures.”
“Mother, please, stop.” All at once his confusion, his disarray, his fury, calms, stilling like the tepid sea in the aftermath of a storm, pushed to the back of his mind at the sight of his mother looking so—so defeated. There’s a tiredness that sinks to the bone. He cannot stop this. Even his mother cannot stop this. “I’ll do it. I—I’ll do what the King wants. I’ll marry him.”
“Oh, my love. You are so brave, and you don’t even know it.” And she leans in close, so close that the slightest hint of lemons tickle endlessly at the tip of his noise, and brushes a kiss against the top of his head. She stills momentarily, lips still lightly pressed against him, and draws in one long, shaky breath.
He shakes his head minutely, fingers fiddling with his sleeves. “I’m not brave. Not like stepfather, or Jace. Certainly not like you.”
“You are every bit as brave as the rest of us. If not more.”
The words sting.
It feels like a lie told to a fool. Lucerys has never felt less brave. He doesn’t know where the boy he once was on that desolate night is—the one consumed by hatred, with a desire to protect his brother, and only a single dagger to do it—but he is not here now.